These Things Happen in Stages
by bibliotech
Summary: Even near death couldn’t phase her...something had to be able to do it.


Title: These Things Happen in Stages -- Four Kisses That Didn't Count, and One That Did

Author: bibliotech

Pairing: Rodney/Teyla

Disclaimer: Not mine, this never, ever happened, I don't own these characters. 100 fiction.

Summary: _Even near-death couldn't phase her--_something_ had to be able to do it._

* * *

The first time he kissed her was an accident.

It sounded so obvious—like the worst of pick-up lines. But he really did trip and just—there she was. And it wouldn't have happened that way if he hadn't moved _that_ way, trying to avoid giving her a concussion, and she hadn't moved the other way, trying to avoid the same thing. And then they both ended up slamming against the wall, the momentum pushing him forward, and pushing her back, and somewhere in all of that, their lips met.

Just for a second.

Just long enough. At least for the first time.

* * *

The second time he kissed her was an accident of a different kind.

Rodney had a strange reaction to avoiding certain death. Actually, he had a few reactions that he cycled through at the appropriate "Oh my God, we're not dead?" moments. There was the blank stare of disbelief. There was the confused babble that never ended. And sometimes he just attacked whoever was within reach.

Teyla's enigmatic smile never faltered, even when he picked her up in his enthusiasm. Maybe that was why he kissed her. Just once, he wanted to shake her up; see some honest-to-God emotion. Hell, even near-death couldn't phase her--_something_ had to be able to do it.

She didn't shriek or faint or any of the other hundreds of reactions that he'd been waiting (hoping?) for. Possibly her eyes widened a fraction; he couldn't be sure. He was too busy checking to make sure that he was actually _not-dead_ and not hallucinating his not-deadness to make sure.

She might've touched her mouth once. Just briefly, her thumb brushing against her lower lip. It was only for a second, and then it was gone.

* * *

The third time, _she_ kissed him. He wasn't quite sure if it was out of pity, or something else.

She'd just finished kicking his ass with sticks. Again. And he was on the floor, idly wondering if he'd ever regain feeling in any of his extremities. Again.

She helped him to his feet, and it was to her credit that she didn't laugh, even though he could tell that she wanted to. To be fair, he couldn't blame her. At least Sheppard gave her a good two, three minutes of work before she dropped him. Rodney still hadn't figured out how to stay upright for more than thirty seconds. He never saw it coming—he probably never would.

Still smiling, she let her forehead rest against his—the always-welcome sign that the lesson was over. He was already pulling away when her fingers tightened on his shoulders. Her cool lips brushing against his. Her fingers brushing the base of his neck before pulling away, leaving him staring after her as she walked away.

She never looked back. He didn't know how long he stood there, wondering what had just happened.

* * *

The fourth could be blamed on the atmosphere. The atmosphere, or the wine.

He couldn't remember the name of the festival—something about a moon, or maybe it was the lack of a moon. He wasn't listening—they were all the same; dancing, as much food as anyone could hope for, and something that only the most optimistic could call a decent wine. By the time night fell, it didn't matter how optimistic the wine was, as long as there was plenty of it. Nights like this, it just seemed appropriate to have a buzz going.

She sat next to him, reaching over him to stoke the fire. Her hair still in her face from all the dancing; the slight sheen of her skin dulled by the firelight. He could never be this relaxed while sober; his mind was too busy, always searching for the right thing to do, the perfect thing to say. So much time searching just meant that he ended up with nothing at all, just an uncomfortable silence until they could go their separate ways.

So it was really the fault of the wine that he took her hand, brushing a kiss against her wrist without looking up. Even under the cover of alcohol, he was waiting for her to pull away. He could blame it on the night, the wine, a need for sleep. He could think of a thousand plausible reasons.

Except she didn't pull away.

* * *

The fifth one was his favorite one.

He can't remember what he'd done that day—something brilliant, of course. Not quite "I single-handedly saved the city" brilliant, but still "I figured this out because no one else could" brilliant. Not too bad. And he _probably_ wouldn't have kissed her. His reaction to his overwhelming intelligence wasn't quite as hands-on as his (sometimes) reaction to certain death. Most of the time, anyway.

Maybe she'd seen something he hadn't seen. Sometimes, when she looked at him—at all of them, really—he felt as if she was finding new things in all of them. Thoughts and emotions they'd never been aware of, forced to the surface by that unchanging gaze. She shook her head, placing her hands on his shoulders. It was a simple gesture that silenced him as effectively as if she'd shouted.

She held him there just long enough. No accidents or rushed moments or awkward motion.

And this time, they kissed each other. 


End file.
